


To Change A Lightbulb

by EnigmaRust



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Post-Finale, Slight fluff, a couple o' cusses, bad decorating, energy-efficient lightbulbs, failure to do a simple task, some danger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23852380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnigmaRust/pseuds/EnigmaRust
Summary: This is set post-non-apocalypse, in an alternate-ish ending. Here, Crowley had been successfully executed by Gabriel at the airbase.The story is Aziraphale attempting to change a lightbulb.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

The lamp light had gone out.

Aziraphale could have fixed it without a thought, but it felt more proper to search out a new lightbulb. It was time for an upgrade anyway. He hadn’t changed it in at least fifty years, and new lights were much better for the environment. He had to consider things like that, after all.

The walk to and from the grocery store was uneventful, almost unnervingly so. It was as if the town, or indeed the world, was sheepishly doing business as usual while ignoring the massive elephant that orbited the globe. The one about the apocalypse, and how it had almost happened a month prior, but then didn’t. The people seem to have collectively agreed to avoid the issue, be it from fear of it all starting up again or the fear of being called insane. There was no evidence, of course, that the whole thing hadn’t been the hallucination of a sole individual, and eight billion people feared the possibility that that they were that single, unfortunate person. 

There were only a handful of people on Earth who didn’t hold the fear of insanity. That same handful of people knew exactly what transpired the week before and would consequently never breathe a word about it again. Of all the people in the world, it was likely this handful felt most strongly about putting the whole thing behind them.

However, it wasn’t an easy thing to forget. The four terrible bikers facing off with children. The gentleman with the comically large gun. Satan, of course, rising from the crumbling concrete of the airbase.

However, that hadn’t even been the worst part. That had been immediately afterwards.

The humans, of course, had no idea what was going on, and had watched in bemusement as two grey-suited individuals had seized the red-headed man by the arms and dragged him, spitting curses, away from his white-haired partner, who had tried to intervene but had been restrained by a man and a horribly ugly woman who seemed to be surrounded by flies. 

At first, it had seemed almost comical. The man in the grey suit had announced something about it all being the fault of the man in the black glasses and had produced something from his suitcoat pocket. The humans had flinched, but relaxed when they saw what it was—an ordinary bottle of water. It appeared that the red-headed man was about to be gently reprimanded—in a rather odd way, but this whole day had been odd, so this wasn’t anything different. What was much odder was the way the white-haired man was acting. He was fighting tooth and nail with his captors, to the point where the woman had kicked out his legs and they had both held him down to the pavement.

Then, the grey-suited man had poured the water, and they had seen the red-haired man disintegrate, and they understood why the white-haired man had been fighting so hard.

***

As he unlocked the door to the bookshop, Aziraphale did what he always did—he tensed, preparing to see Gabriel or Michael when he swung the door open. It wasn’t going to go away anytime soon, this reaction. There had certainly been a sense of unfinished business that day on the airfield, after they had killed Crowley. Their next objective had been cut short by a rather blinding message sent from above. Aziraphale had received it as well, even preoccupied as he was; he had felt the rage of God in every vein in his body. What it had been in response of was anyone’s guess—a lot had happened in the past hour, after all—but the archangels had taken it to mean, at least, that they should stop what they were currently doing and return to Headquarters to debrief. Aziraphale had been left alone on the airbase, surrounded by humans who needed escorting to safety, a task he had done dutifully, however not because he felt any desire to help them. In fact, he felt closer to murdering every one of them. But it wasn’t who he was.

He was an angel, after all.

Aziraphale pushed open the door and was greeted by an empty bookshop. Perfectly clean and cluttered; exactly how he’d left it, and exactly how he’d found it the day after everything went down, despite the rather burned-down state he had last known it to be in. Aziraphale had examined everything that day, and aside from some books being somewhat different than he’d remembered, it was all in order. Then he had found a pair of freshly mended sunglasses on the desk. He kept those glasses in a drawer now, one he never used.

It had been a long time coming, he’d decided. One doesn’t go thousands of years hiding and obscuring and fraternizing behind the back of Heaven without it all coming out in the wash. He should have known better. He had known better. He’d just tried to ignore it, that’s all. That had been his fatal flaw. He’d had the gall to be positive. And he’d been foolish enough to be tempted by a demon.

Weary, Aziraphale sank into his desk chair. He often felt tired these days. The thought of changing a lightbulb exhausted him. His eyes smarted and his chest was thick with pain; this happened, sometimes. When he made the mistake of letting it.

“It’s just a bloody lightbulb,” he muttered to himself, grabbing the grocery bag he’d deposited on the floor. Inside was a pack of curly fluorescent lightbulbs. He wasn’t a fan of how they looked—it would look rather out-of-place with his antique lamp—but the store had been out of the rounder variety.

He was just opening the box when the bell above the bookshop door rang. He looked up to see Gabriel enter the shop.

“Aziraphale,” the archangel said, looking around to make sure there weren’t any other customers. “I’m glad to see your little haven was restored.” He sniffed. “It smells better.”

Aziraphale placed the box of lightbulbs on his desk and stood. He didn’t answer.

Gabriel tried for a moment to flash one of his salesmen smiles, but gave up when Aziraphale didn’t react and proceeded with his more natural expression—all business, his violet eyes cold. He drew a clipboard from a briefcase he was carrying. “I have some paperwork for you to sign.”

“What paperwork?” Aziraphale finally said. His nerves were taut. His eyes flitted around for anything he could use to discorporate Gabriel and they landed on the lamp. It was the heaviest thing in arms reach.

“There’s no need to be suspicious,” Gabriel said coolly. “It’s standard procedure.”

“For what, may I ask?” Aziraphale said. He was waiting for the moment when a demon would walk through the door, a flaming bowl in their hands, ready to cast hellfire the moment Aziraphale signed.

Gabriel let out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s the form regarding the recorporation into a new body. It should have been filled out weeks ago, but we’re willing to overlook it, given the strange times.”

Aziraphale stared at him, confused.

“You received a new body four weeks ago.” He gave Aziraphale a tight smile. “I assume you remember. Regardless of how that body came into being, the proper paperwork still needs to be filled out. Red tape. All that jazz. Sign here.” He tapped a pen on a dotted line.

Aziraphale could only stare. His fingers twitched in the direction of the lamp.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, eyebrows raised. “Times ticking. I’ve got places to be.”

Aziraphale clenched his fists. “Why aren’t you killing me?”

Gabriel let out another massive sigh as he lowered the clipboard. “Oh, Aziraphale. Don’t you think I would have done that already if I could?”

Aziraphale gave a tiny shrug. “I have no idea, Gabriel. We think very differently.”

“Oh, I know.” Gabriel laughed without humour, gesturing to Aziraphale with the pen. “While I try to bring about the war necessary for Heaven to finally destroy the opposition, the war that’s been brewing for thousands of years, you find it much more necessary to dick around with a demon and screw it all up. No, Aziraphale, don’t think for a second I wouldn’t have killed you immediately if I could. But, unfortunately…” He shook his head and then gave Aziraphale a steely glare. “Have to follow orders.”

“Orders? From…” Aziraphale glanced upwards.

“Yeah. Lucky you.” Gabriel shrugged. “But then, maybe She’s just saving you for Herself.” He brought up the clipboard again. “Sign, please.”

Aziraphale paused. His fingers twitched towards the lamp again. Then he reached toward the desk, grabbed his own pen, and signed the clipboard from as great a distance he could manage.

Gabriel gave a tut of laughter and stowed the clipboard back in his briefcase, snapping it shut with finality. “Well, that’s it. Enjoy your material objects.” He turned on his heel and headed for the door.

“You got in trouble, didn’t you?”

Gabriel paused just before the door. He turned, that false smile on his lips. “What?”

Aziraphale was breathing hard. “You got in trouble with Her, didn’t you? She was angry that you killed—that you did what you did.”

A muscle jumped in Gabriel’s jaw. He took a breath before speaking, his words measured. “I was lightly reprimanded for being hasty in a situation that may have called for further inspection and judgement. My instincts were correct, of course, but I hadn’t followed proper procedure—”

“That’s a lie. You weren’t correct.” Aziraphale was finding it hard to speak now. “Crowley acted with greater dignity and benevolence than any of us, and She knew, She did—”

Gabriel snorted and held up a hand. “Aziraphale, I’m going to have to stop you there. Dignity? Benevolence?” He waved his hand. “Now, I know you guys had a history, but hell, the guy was a demon. I doubt the Almighty saw him as much more than a…” Gabriel searched for a word. “A roach, or something. Something you’d crush under a book.” He snapped his fingers and a smile lit his face. “A snake! Duh.”

“You’re wrong,” Aziraphale said in a low voice.

“Aziraphale, can I give you some advice?” Gabriel gave him a sympathetic smile that had about as much warmth as an iron rod. “Get over it. The guy’s gone. I mean, if I were you, I’d be celebrating—you got off Scott free. For the moment, at least.” He checked his watch. “Anyway. I really have to run.” He gave Aziraphale a cheery nod, and the door closed behind him with a tinkle of the bell.

Aziraphale stood frozen. He wanted to seize a book and throw it, but he didn’t want to ruin any of his books. And what he truly wanted was more on the lines of following Gabriel and…and…

“And what,” Aziraphale asked himself. “Killing him?”

The idea was tempting. It was more than tempting—it was closer to a need. Like he wouldn’t live another moment if he didn’t.

But he knew that was just silly. He didn’t need to do anything to live. He didn’t need food or water or shelter. And he, apparently, didn’t need to sleep with one eye open any longer. No angel or demon was coming to finish what had been started in the airbase. He had an unlimited number of years stretching in front of him. Years, and years and years.

The trouble was that this thought didn’t give him the relief he’d hoped for. In fact, he barely gave it a thought at all.

_“The guy’s gone.”_

Aziraphale went to the door of the bookshop, flipped the sign to _closed,_ and locked the door, though it was barely three in the afternoon. He headed back to his desk and sat, burying his fingers in his hair.

A while later, when the bookshop had started darkening with the setting sun, he remembered what he had been doing before Gabriel had arrived. The pack of lightbulbs sat on his desk, half-opened.

He finished opening the box and pulled out a bulb, examining the new shape. He remembered when the lightbulb had first come out, all those years ago. It had taken Aziraphale quite some time to adopt the new technology, though it would have been simple for him to procure. He was just loathe to give up the romantic ambiance of his candles. Crowley, on the other hand, had bought some of the first available on the market; his flat had been illuminated like a sun-soaked garden.

_Look at it, Aziraphale,_ he had said, gesturing to the place. _Soon they’ll make light that plants can grow in. I’ll finally be able to keep those bastards inside, and there’ll be no more using bugs as an excuse._

It occurred to Aziraphale, then, that all the plants in Crowley’s apartment were likely dead. Perhaps they had been relieved, at first, when Crowley didn’t return home—no more terrifying watering sessions—but as the weeks passed they would have all gotten spots, then dropped dead from neglect. The thought hit Aziraphale right in the chest, and he had to put down the bulb and press his fists into his eyes.

_Gone. Not coming back._

_He’s not coming back, you fool. You still have to change the lightbulb._

It took some time, but eventually he dragged his lamp across the desk towards him and unscrewed the broken bulb. As he was turning it, however, a blinding light lit the room, and he nearly knocked over the lamp in his haste to cover his eyes.

Once he was sure he hadn’t been set alight with Hellfire, he lowered his hands and squinted in the direction of the light. It was coming from a bookcase. However, it was no longer filled with books, or shelves. It was instead filled to the brim with white, shining vapor, like a doorway opened to a room of smoke.

Aziraphale stood and approached the portal, his eyes wide. “What on Earth,” he murmured.

Somehow, though, he knew this phrase was exactly wrong. This wasn’t Earth. Or, at least, it wasn’t leading to anywhere on Earth.

“What will happen if I walk through?” he asked aloud, to no one in particular.

The door shimmered. It didn’t make a noise. But some of the most dangerous things were silent. Rarely do dangerous things make a noise to announce themselves if they truly wanted to do harm.

“Except rattlesnakes,” Aziraphale muttered. He held out a shaking hand and waved it through the vapor. It tingled, but didn’t hurt. Without another thought, Aziraphale stepped through the bookcase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: The piece will actually be in three parts, and not two halves, as I'd originally said in my first note.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the second part doesn't conclude the story, as I'd thought. It ended up being longer, so there will be a small, third part following this one. It'll be up soon--I just figured I'd post the middle in the meantime.

It was Heaven. But it wasn’t a part he’d seen before.

He knew it was Heaven, because he recognised the tiles of the floor. Angels weren’t terribly imaginative, and their decorating was uniform throughout the entirety of the Above. Uniform, blinding white, and bland as all Hell.

However, this part of Heaven was different than what he was used to. Here, there was something to break up the expanse of empty tile.

Before him, not far in the distance, were two doors. They weren’t far apart, and they were set in a strange, hazy wall that almost didn’t exist. The doors were solid, however. Both white, though the one on the left wasn’t quite as blinding. Eggshell, perhaps.

Aziraphale walked slowly towards the doors. He felt a strange fear. In the silence, his footsteps echoed, and he wished he’d opted for quieter soles. He’d always insisted on leather-soled shoes. Had he invested in trainers he’d be quieter. But then, he had standards.

This place however…there was a feeling of secrecy to it. He knew, instinctively, that he shouldn’t be allowed here. That no one was ever, really, allowed here. Like he had wandered off the edge of a map.

“Why am I here?” he whispered, and in the silence it was as though he’d shouted it.

Nothing answered him.

For some reason, he knew he didn’t have much time. However, he was not keen on opening any of the two doors. They scared him, and he didn’t know why. They emitted some kind of energy that he couldn’t get a grip on. It was greater than anything he’d ever felt.

Instinctively, he headed to the whiter door. The doorknob was gold and engraved with vines. If he’d had time, he would have examined the craftsmanship. But now was not the time. He grasped the handle. It was strangely warm.

This comforted him, a little, and he opened the door. He was greeted by a wall of flame.

“ _Dammit!”_ he yelled, and slammed the door shut.

Immediately he felt shame for cursing. But his body still radiated heat from the single moment the door had been opened. He was surprised his hair hadn’t singed, and quickly brought a hand up to check that his eyebrows were still intact.

In the single moment the door was open, he had seen that it wasn’t entirely flames the room was filled with. He recalled what looked like a hallway, lined with shelves. All on fire, of course. He hadn’t seen what was on the shelves, however, and he wasn’t about to open the door again.

Straightening his bowtie, he backed away from the white door and glanced warily at the eggshell one. Now that he knew flames were a possibility, he was even more unwilling to try the second door. Perhaps this one would unveil a room of Hell Hounds. Or Satan himself. He wondered if he should knock, then threw away that thought. If danger wasn’t going to announce its presence, then neither was he.

Slowly, he approached the eggshell door. His mouth was dry. Why had he even come here? Why was he going around opening strange doors all of a sudden? It wasn’t like it was going to help him.

He reached out a hand and grasped the doorknob, this one made of wood. He felt a flash of relief when this one didn’t feel warm. He turned it, paused, then pulled it open a half an inch.

No flames shot through the crack. However, he did hear something trickling, and looked down to see a pool of water growing around the edge of the open door. He opened it fully, and the water cascaded gently over the threshold, wetting the leather soles of his shoes.

This hallway was painted the same eggshell white of the door, and was, like the other, lined with shelves. It was much easier to see, with the absence of flames. However, every surface—the shelves, the floor—was covered in a shining layer of water. It dripped from the shelves in unending trickles, though there didn’t seem to be a source. The water on the floor was an inch deep, flowing quickly now that the door was open, and Aziraphale could feel water seep into his socks as he walked inside.

On all the shelves there were small orbs, roughly the size of billiard balls. They sat upon wet, wooden stands, a few inches apart—there were hundreds that he could see, and he didn’t know how far the hallway went. He was reminded of a souvenir shop he’d visited once in Paris, every shelf covered in kitschy snowglobes housing tiny plastic Eiffel Towers and Arc de Triumphs and Notre Dames. These globes didn’t have anything inside. They glowed faintly, with a light that pulsed in rhythm.

These globes emitted something else, something Aziraphale couldn’t place. Some energy. He didn’t like this place, but something pulled him forward.

“Why am I here,” he whispered again. His voice was tight with fear. Again, he heard no answer. Only the trickle of water as it flowed off the shelves.

Taking another look at the shelves, he realised that, at the base of every globe, there was a tiny plaque. Curious, he walked over to one and looked closer. It was difficult to read through the flowing water, but he could just make it out.

_Alastor DXI (aka Alex Miller) 12/08/1764_

“What in the world…” Aziraphale murmured. He stared at the globe, and it pulsed. Like a heartbeat.

Then he read the next one. And the next. And the next.

He kept going, down the line. His heart was in his throat as he read each plaque, not stopping to read the whole thing, eventually just looking at the first letter, searching like a man searches for an antidote to a poison that was seeping in his veins. He was almost running now, the water splashing around his feet, soaking the hem of his pants. He barely noticed.

Hope was a dangerous thing. He knew this. If he didn’t have the capacity to hope, he’d never have the capacity to feel hopeless. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help the feeling as it swelled in his chest, despite all his efforts to quash it. It was impossible. This was impossible, that tiny thought in his mind was impossible. But he kept looking.

And he nearly missed it.

He was five globes down when his eyes caught up with his brain, and he backtracked, splashing water up the back of his pants. He read and reread the plaque, but he really didn’t need to. He could feel it, this globe. It’s energy. It felt familiar. His breath catching in his throat, he reached out and picked up the globe. It sat in his hand like a plucked apple.

“Crowley,” he whispered. He used his shirt to dry the little orb. The water, he realised, was likely not ordinary water, and he felt sick that the droplets were even on the glass. What if he could feel it? A continuous burn?

He stood there for quite a while, just holding the globe. Too long.

Suddenly, he heard voices. They were echoing down the hall, from the direction of the doorway. Aziraphale quickly slipped the globe in his jacket pocket, and he headed back the way he came, trying not to splash and failing in his haste to get to the door.

At the door, he paused, listening. The voices seemed far off, but who knew how far they could see—there wasn’t much in the way of blocking the view. Knowing that he couldn’t stay here, knowing he had to do it now, he slipped through the door and closed it behind him, trying to stop the click. He then started away from the door and had only gone about ten steps before the voice rang out.

“You there! Stop!”

Aziraphale stopped and turned. Two angels he didn’t recognise were walking in his direction, holding flaming swords. “Ah, hello,” Aziraphale said, smiling warmly at them.

“Who are you?” one angel demanded, pointing the sword at Aziraphale. “How did you get here?”

“I just…wandered here,” Aziraphale said. He wondered if he could get away with just answering the second inquiry. “I’m a bit lost, actually. I came through a bookcase. Well, it wasn’t a bookcase when I went through it, but until recently it had very much been one—”

“No one just _wanders_ here,” the other angel said sharply. “It’s the most heavily guarded section of Heaven. You must have been granted access. Why?”

Aziraphale blinked at her. “Well…if I’ve been granted access, then surely it’s not a good idea to be pointing a sword at me.”

She looked at her partner, and he begrudgingly lowered the sword. “Even if you’ve been let in here, it doesn’t mean you’ve been acting accordingly,” he said. “You should have an escort. No one goes near the Halls without an escort.”

“Well, he wandered off.”

“Who was he?”

Aziraphale couldn’t think—he grabbed onto the first name that popped in his brain. “Gabriel.”

Immediately he regretted the choice. However, his answer seemed to impress the guard angels. They blinked in surprise. “Gabriel?” the second angel said uneasily.

“Yes, Gabriel.” Aziraphale held out a hand to indicate height, then realised how stupid it looked and dropped his hand. “Tall fellow. Grey suit. Archangel.”

“We know who Gabriel is,” the man said. “Why is he taking you to the Halls?”

“Well…” Aziraphale thought quickly. “I was meant to file a form, you see. Recorporation of a Body. It was meant to be filed a month ago, but you know, strange times.” He let out a little chuckle that wasn’t reciprocated, and he stopped immediately. “He must have, um, brought me to the wrong area. And then, you know. Disappeared.”

The two guard angels glanced at each other.

“Perhaps we should call Gabriel,” the second guard said.

“There’s no need for that,” Aziraphale said hastily. He brushed his hands down his coat—he could feel the little globe through the fabric. “Really, I was just leaving anyway. If you could direct me to the door that leads to Earth, that would be splendid.”

“No…” The second guard studied Aziraphale with narrowed eyes. “I think we need Gabriel’s confirmation on this. Something doesn’t smell right.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale’s voice was bordering on hysterical now. “Perhaps it’s paint. I thought I smelled some. Are you redecorating?”

“We never redecorate,” the first guard said.

The second guard pressed a finger to her temple and closed her eyes. A moment later, Gabriel appeared.

“I was in a meeting,” he said, visibly irritated. Then he noticed Aziraphale, and his purple eyes flashed with surprise.

“Hello, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said. “Did the paperwork go through?”

“Haven’t had a chance to file it yet,” Gabriel said slowly. He blinked. “How did…why are you here?”

“So you _were_ lying,” the first guard hissed to Aziraphale.

Gabriel turned to him. “Shut up.” He turned back to Aziraphale. “You can’t be here.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “I was trying to get out, actually. Do you know where I could find a door to—”

“No, I mean, it’s literally impossible for you to be here. Only the highest tier angel can enter this place, and that is only with proper documentation. You should have burned to a crisp in the entranceway. How in the name of Heaven did you get in?”

“Oh, well…” Aziraphale shrugged. “I just wandered in.”

Gabriel chewed on his lip. He seemed to be deep in thought.

Aziraphale could feel the warmth of the orb in his pocket. All he had to do was get away from Gabriel.

He just needed to get away.

“Gabriel, I just want to go home,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t know how I got here, and I don’t particularly want to be here. I think the best thing would be to let me leave, wouldn’t you say?” Aziraphale tried to exude an air of camaraderie. “You don’t really want to do more paperwork, do you?”

Gabriel gave him a tight smile. “Paperwork is part of my job. And, Aziraphale, I really don’t think you’re reading the situation the way you should.”

“Oh? I’m not?” 

“No. See, breaking into this place,” Gabriel waved a hand, “is punishable by death. I mean, usually the entranceway does that for us, but, you know. Strange times.” He gave his head a quick shake, as though trying to rid it of confusion.

“Death?” Aziraphale swallowed. “Well, that’s a touch harsh.”

“No, not really.”

“Then why aren’t you killing me?” Aziraphale felt a sense of déjà vu as he remembered asking the same question not a couple of hours before.

“Because,” Gabriel said coolly. “I’ve learned my lesson about being hasty. If you’re here, then you didn’t burn in the entranceway. So, I can’t rule out any possibility that you got in here with proper documentation. Which is impossible, because I’m the one who has to sign off on that documentation. You see my dilemma.”

Aziraphale nodded. “It seems to me,” he said, “it would be a lot simpler to just, you know. Let me on my way. I’ve done no harm, and frankly, I think we’re both equally confused. Why not just chalk it up as an odd day and…” He shrugged and tried to smile as winningly as he could.

Gabriel gazed at him. Then, suddenly, he turned to look at the doors in the distance. “Did you enter one of the Halls?”

“No,” Aziraphale said, a little too quickly. His hand brushed the globe in his pocket.

Gabriel strode over to the doors. He stopped by the eggshell one, then let out a chuckle as he turned to give Aziraphale a wide smile. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of this immediately.”

“I didn’t—”

“Check his pockets,” Gabriel said to the guards. They nodded and stepped forward.

Aziraphale’s heart was in his throat. He thought about the globe in his pocket—he needed to move it somewhere else. Maybe up under his arm, or in his collar. However, when he tried to move it with his mind, it wouldn’t budge. Miracles wouldn’t work on the little sphere.

The first guard grabbed him and held the flaming sword close to his throat. The other started checking his jacket pockets, starting on the wrong side. Just before she slipped her hand into the right side’s pocket, he willed the stitching of the pocket to loosen, and he could feel the heavy sphere slip through the hole and fall into the lining of his coat. He closed the stitches just as her fingers hit the bottom of the pocket, and she moved on, unaware.

She checked the pants pockets, and his nerves twinged as her hands came close to brushing the heavy globe in the jacket lining, but miraculously, she didn’t notice.

“Check the socks,” Gabriel called.

She did, giving his ankles a quick pat down. “Nothing, sir,” she said, standing and wiping her hands on her own pants. The other guard let Aziraphale go, and he felt the sweat on his neck where the flaming sword had been held.

“You see?” Aziraphale said, his voice cracking slightly. “I never went in. I don’t even know what those doors lead to. I don’t make a habit of opening up random doors—”

“Shut up, Aziraphale, I know you went in.” Gabriel stomped the ground a few times with a foot. Aziraphale could hear the splash of water.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, struggling to find words. “How do you know—how do you know it wasn’t one of these two?” He gestured to the guards.

“They know the penalty for breaking into the Halls,” Gabriel said. “They aren’t idiots.”

“Well, perhaps there was someone else. If I could get in, then surely—”

Gabriel addressed the guard who had frisked Aziraphale, “Were his pant legs wet?”

“Very, sir.”

“Wonderful.” Gabriel threw Aziraphale a grin. “Well. I guess I have my reason now, don’t I?”

The guards moved toward Aziraphale again, and he stepped back. “That proves nothing,” he insisted, and gestured to the doors. “I admit I was curious, but I never went inside! I got water on my pants from the puddle you’re standing in. Is it illegal to open a door?”

“Extremely.”

“Ah. Well, then I didn’t open it.” Aziraphale straightened himself. “The water was on the ground when I examined the door. Someone must have opened it before I got here.”

Gabriel rubbed his face with his hands. “Aziraphale, you have to realise that this won’t work—”

“How can you prove otherwise?” Aziraphale said, backing away quicker now. One guard broke away from the other and circled around Aziraphale, who stopped his backtracking. “How do you know? What if the moment you kill me, you get another message from Her? I don’t think she’ll be as forgiving this time around.”

Gabriel locked eyes with Aziraphale. The archangel’s jaw was clenched.

A bolt of inspiration hit Aziraphale. “And what if it was Her?” he said in a low voice. “How do you know that She doesn’t want me here? That She was the one who let me in? How do you know, Gabriel, that this isn’t just part of the ineffable—”

“Shut your damn mouth!” Gabriel snarled. He coughed, then straightened his coat. “What you’re saying is ridiculous and impossible. But…” His face twitched. “But I can’t afford to be hasty.”

“Sir?” one of the guards said, surprised.

“Let him go,” Gabriel said. “He can return to his little hovel. In the meantime, I’ll report this to Head Office, and we can continue from there. We’ll prove that he broke into the Hall and we’ll see where he got his documentation.” He gave Aziraphale a long look. “I can only assume it’s demon’s work. The man is a traitor, after all.” 

Aziraphale nodded. He felt light with relief. He turned to leave.

“Sir,” one guard said, his voice shocked. “His jacket. There’s something there, in the bottom!”

Aziraphale’s heart dropped. Gabriel appeared at once before him, the smile lighting his face once more. “Well. This changes things.”

Aziraphale could feel the two guards advance behind him.

Gabriel held out a hand. “Give it here. I can’t have it broken when you fall.”

“No.” Aziraphale met his gaze.

“See, that’s just foolish. You’re going to die in five seconds. We’ll get it back regardless.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know anything.” Aziraphale was breathing hard. “You don’t know what will happen the moment you kill me. You don’t know if you’ll burn to a crisp yourself. You don’t know what She wants. You’ve been wrong so many times before.” He felt along the seam of his coat and found the sphere, gripping it tight. It would be a cold day in Hell before he handed it over.

He had been so close. He knew now that his likelihood of escape was near zero. He gripped the ball like it was what held him to life. He could feel the warmth through the fabric.

“Stealing a sphere from one of the Halls is punishable by death,” Gabriel said. “She can’t argue that—”

“You don’t know,” Aziraphale said over Gabriel, “what I will do if you try to take it from me.”

Gabriel studied him. He seemed perplexed. “You…can’t seriously be considering fighting us?” He let out a short laugh. “Two guards with flaming swords capable of destroying an Angel with one slice, and an Archangel who is more than tired of your bullshit?”

“Oh, I can’t claim that I’ll be able to fight all of you and win,” Aziraphale said. “But you can’t know for sure. Maybe I’ll die immediately, no harm done. Maybe I’ll kill one of you and die. Maybe two. Maybe three. Maybe all the angels of Heaven. You can’t know.” He paused. “But the thing is, Gabriel, all you have to worry about is if I can kill one.”

Gabriel blinked. Aziraphale’s gaze bored into his. In a flash, Aziraphale was back in the airfield, begging those violet eyes to show mercy, watching as they twinkled in delight as the water poured. And, at that moment, he prayed for one of the flaming swords to appear in his hand.

“Sir?” said one of the guards, uneasy.

Gabriel swallowed. “Stand down.” A moment went by, then he waved a hand. “Stand _down._ I need to think.”

The moment Aziraphale felt the swords lower, he was running. He heard Gabriel shout, but Aziraphale didn’t stop, and Gabriel didn’t appear in front of him.

Aziraphale knew how Gabriel thought. He would be able to make the excuse that Aziraphale ran. No calculated, logical decision necessary. It would look fine on the paperwork. No one read those reports thoroughly anyway.

Aziraphale ran, though he had no idea where to. The portal to the bookcase had apparently disappeared, and all he saw before him was the blank, white tile floor of Heaven. He recalled what Gabriel said about the entranceway and wondered if he would suddenly burst into flames. No real point worrying about it.

He kept running, and he could feel the orb bouncing against the back of his legs. He slipped a hand in his pocket, opened up the stitches and fished for the orb, which he then held safe to his chest.

Perhaps he was being pursued. He couldn’t tell. He wasn’t looking back. All he could do was run. He’d have to stop sometime—he wasn’t in shape and could feel his lungs burn already—but for the moment he felt the freedom in the distance he was putting between him and the other angels. He could fool himself into believing that he’d done it—whatever it was. He’d done the impossible. Somehow. For a moment he could believe it was possible…

But perhaps he had done it.

The joy was building in his burning chest. The globe in his hand was real. It was him.

And Aziraphale wasn’t certain, but in the distance he thought he saw light. A laugh bubbled up in his throat. He had done it.


	3. Chapter 3

Aziraphale awoke with a start.

It was dark. Dim light from the streetlamps outside cast deep shadows in the bookshop. Aziraphale’s face was buried in the crook of his arm; he was slumped on his desk.

He sat up, disoriented. He didn’t fall asleep often. Sleep wasn’t necessary for angels, of course, though every once in a while he felt in the mood for a nap on the couch, in the sunshine. He typically felt refreshed afterwards. He didn’t feel refreshed now.

The hall. The shelves. Gabriel. _The orb._

His hand, the hand that had held the orb, was slack in his lap. There was something in his palm, and his heart leapt when he felt the cool glass. He brought it up to the dull light of the window.

It was a lightbulb. The one he’d been replacing. 

His heart slowed. He shook the bulb, pressed his ear against it, then his cheek. No warmth. No light.

He stood and tilted the lamp towards him, rescrewing the bulb and flicking the switch. Nothing.

He unplugged the lamp and carried it across the bookshop, to another outlet. He knelt and plugged the lamp in, then tried the switch again. No light. He kept flicking the switch.

Nothing. It was out.

“Just a dream, then,” he said to the empty shop.

It didn’t answer him. All he heard was the sound of outside; horns and engines, people heading home in the evening rush hour traffic.

Aziraphale yanked the cord from the wall and, with a yell, threw the lamp as hard as he could down one of the shops aisles. The delicate lamp shattered and the bulb exploded into sparkling glass shards, peppering the spines of ancient books.

“What was the point?” he bellowed at the ceiling. “What was the _fucking_ point of all that?”

In a rage, Aziraphale grabbed whatever books were nearest and hurtled them. It didn’t matter where he was throwing them—he wasn’t throwing them at anything in particular.

Still not satisfied, he ran to his desk and grabbed the pack of bulbs. One by one he threw them at his feet, though they didn’t shatter—he’d bought the shatterproof kind. Furious, he kicked one as hard as he could, and it spun across the floor like a top.

And then the fire was out, and he collapsed in his desk chair. He grasped handfuls of his hair and leaned on the desk.

He couldn’t believe he’d just done that. Screamed at Her like he was some down-on-his-luck human. Or demon. He’d pay for that, someday. He didn’t care. Not at the moment, at least.

It wasn’t just that he’d, in a sense, lost him again. That was bad. But it wasn’t something he was unfamiliar with. Many times in the past month he had forgotten that Crowley was gone. He’d have a moment where he’d make a mental note to tell the demon something, or he’d get hungry and reach for the phone to plan a lunch, and then he’d deal with remembering. It wasn’t new, that pain.

No, he had felt something else this time, and the new, unfamiliar pain was deep—almost as deep as the grief. It was the ache of a primal hope shattered. As he had run through the white expanse of Heaven, he had thought, for a few wonderful moments, that he hadn’t been wrong in what he’d said to Gabriel—that this had, indeed, been a part of Her plan. That She had wanted Aziraphale to succeed. That She had wanted Crowley to live again. That She had seen the good in the demon, and what he and Aziraphale had done together. For a single, blinding moment, Aziraphale wasn’t a traitor, and Crowley wasn’t unforgivable.

And then, Aziraphale had woken up alone. More alone than he had been in his entire existence.

He thought about what Gabriel had said, earlier. That God had only spared Aziraphale to save his punishment for Herself. Perhaps that’s all this was—Her punishment. He wondered if he would ever know. He somehow doubted it.

Perhaps one day he would see the wisdom in all of this. It was possible. But it was more possible that he wouldn’t. Maybe this was simply the final cut off—they on their side, he on his. A side of a single angel.

The ringing in his ears gave way to the muffled sounds of the street outside. Aziraphale wiped his eyes, feeling foolish.

Then he froze.

There was a rustle from behind him. And then, someone spoke.

“That,” said the familiar, drawling voice, “was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.”

Aziraphale twisted in his chair and saw Crowley, picking his way through the books on the floor as he circled around a bookcase. He bent down and picked up the lightbulb Aziraphale had kicked, examining it with a bemused expression. “What is this, plastic?” He put it to his mouth and bit it, then gave it an impressed look before fixating his yellow eyes back on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale stood. “You…” he said, then swallowed—the word had barely made a noise. “Where did you come from?”

Crowley blinked, then held up the lightbulb as an answer, then gestured to the book aisle behind him. “This month has been an odd one.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale said, turning quickly to his desk. He didn’t want Crowley to see his face. “Would you like some tea, or coffee?” He started shuffling things around on his desk, just for something to do.

“Yeah, sure.” There was a long pause. Aziraphale continued to organize his desk. Then Crowley spoke again. “Come on, angel, what kind of greeting is that?”

Aziraphale glanced up at him. “I need some time to process this, Crowley. I’m in shock, you know.”

“C’mon.” Crowley looked delighted. “You missed me, didn’t you? Admit it, an angel missed a demon—”

Aziraphale’s wall of reserve crumbled. In the next moment, he found himself crossing the room and embracing the lanky form. “Of course I did, you idiot,” Aziraphale said tightly.

“Oh. That’s good.” Crowley’s voice cracked.

They broke apart. Crowley looked a trifle punch-drunk. Aziraphale didn’t blame him; in the six-thousand years they’d known each other, Aziraphale had restrained touching to a simple tap on the shoulder or a handshake, and even that took a while—there was a time where he’d been afraid of his hand burning up. He felt a little embarrassed at his own lack of restraint—he knew his face must be bright red—but figured that they both would get over it eventually.

Crowley had picked up a random book and was staring it with great intensity. Aziraphale walked to the desk and retrieved the pair of sunglasses from the drawer, holding them out, and Crowley dropped the book and took them. He studied the glasses for a long moment before donning them and clearing his throat. “So,” Crowley finally said. “Done anything new while I was gone?”

“I very nearly changed a lightbulb.” And he had broken his favourite lamp. This unpleasant recollection made Aziraphale glance at the spot on his desk where his lamp usually sat. He froze.

“You really do know how to have fun—”

“My lamp!” Aziraphale reached forward and touched the lamp, which sat fully-formed and perfect in the familiar spot on the desk. “Look, Crowley! Did you do this?”

“Do what now?”

Aziraphale reached for the switch and flicked it. The room was suddenly bathed in warm light.

“It’s fixed,” Aziraphale said. He turned around, beaming.

“Hallelujah,” Crowley said, leaning down to study the lamp. “But if it were me, I wouldn’t fix it, I’d get you a new one. You need to redecorate, angel.”

“Not in a million years,” Aziraphale said softly, smiling at the lamp.

The bulb inside flickered, almost like a candle flickers in a sudden wind. Almost like an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! Me actually writing down an idea that I'd gotten while half-asleep. Looks like it's another episode of "Can't End a Story Unhappily To Save My Own Life" starring Me.  
> It was fun to write, anyway! Thanks to all who took the time to read--I appreciate the heck out of it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my first contribution to Good Omens fics, my dudes!


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